


The Ties That Bind

by GreedIsGreen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A bit of crackpot theory on my end, Dark Sansa, F/M, I accept and embrace your hate, One Shot, Throw out your expectations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-09-06 10:05:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8745970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreedIsGreen/pseuds/GreedIsGreen
Summary: Arya Stark arrives in Winterfell to find her sister, Sansa, within the clutches of the notorious Littlefinger. Arya must save her. Littlefinger must die.





	1. The Harsh Winter Wind

When Arya arrived at Winterfell, she chose to wear the face of another. She saw the direwolf banners flying atop the walls, but caution dictated that she must be wary. Even after all these years, the betrayal of the Red Wedding was a lesson harshly learned. 

The first thing she noticed were the soot covered stones. The second, the stench of death: blood and shit intermingled, concentrated into the very mud her feet trode upon. And last, Sansa. 

Arya wanted to go to her. Hug her. Share with her everything she had learned. Everything she had done. Instead, she wore her mask, and she watched, and she waited, and she learned.

Sansa had changed. She was hardened. Cynical, a descriptor she would never have ascribed her before. Stories of her marriage to Ramsay Bolton soon came to light. Stories of his death. 

A week after her return, Littlefinger rode through the gates of Winterfell with a host of Vale knights. Arya's hand twitched on Needle. His sly eyes scoured over her for only a moment before Sansa entered the courtyard. Their greeting, to the unobservant, looked formal and proper. However, Arya noticed all too well how his eyes raked over Sansa, and how his hands held her's for a few seconds too long. 

Flashes of Harrenhal flitted through her mind. Littlefinger and Tywin Lannister plotting the downfall of her brother, Robb. What is this devious man doing here? Arya was certain he could not be trusted. Sansa must be warned. 

Late that evening, Arya made her way through the halls and hidden passages of Winterfell. There was an ongoing feast in the dining hall. A celebration of new arrivals from the Vale. Littlefinger, no doubt, sitting at a seat of honor at her father's table — a sickening thought. 

Arya had watched Sansa, and knew that she would need evidence to convince her of Littlefinger's misdeeds. Silently, she crept along the halls until she came to his chambers. She praised the Stranger for her luck that they were unguarded, unlocked. She slipped inside. 

Littlefinger had received one of the better suites in Winterfell — a large four poster bed, piled high with furs sat to one side, and a desk to the other. This room even had its own hearth and a small washing chamber attached. Within, a fire burned in the grate, and its flames cast sufficient light for her task. 

As stealthy as a cat, Arya began searching. The desk held a few vague, but uncondemning, correspondence. The books scattered among the tabletops held nothing either. Her eyes lit upon his personal travel chest, and quickly she pried the lock open with a small kitchen knife she'd acquired earlier in the day. 

Inside, it appeared ordinary. Several silk tunics and brocade robes sat, folded neatly. Under those, she found a few books: Targaryen histories and what looked to be a Dornish maester's records. Then there was nothing. But no, for there were at least six inches of chest unaccounted. 

Arya reached her hands around the base of the bottom until she felt it--a latch imbedded in the wood, and obscured by the fabric lining. Suddenly, all the evidence she needed lay out before her. Financial logs of the seven kingdoms, coded scrolls with what appeared to be a codex, and most damning of all — a journal. Of course, Littlefinger would want to keep a record of his plots; the murder of Jon Arryn, his dealings with her father. It was there, written in his own hand; a full admission of his crimes. 

She'd found exactly what she needed. Sansa won't hesitate to listen to her with this proof set before her. Swiftly, Arya replaced all but the journal, and set out for Sansa's rooms to await her sister. 

An hour passed before the telltale creak of the door was heard. Arya watched Sansa enter from a darkened alcove. Waited until she sat in the chair in front of the fire to remove her boots and cloak before she made her presence known. 

"Sansa," Arya whispered into the cold night air. 

Sansa startled in her chair. Darting behind it, scanning the dark, she called, "Who's there? Show yourself!" 

Arya stepped into the light, and removed the face she'd been wearing. "It's me, Sansa. I've come home." Ayra tried to smile, but it had been so long, she was sure it came off hesitant and uncertain. 

Sansa gasped, hand drawn to her lips, eyes wide, looking; searching until she found it. Needle sat proudly on Arya's hip. It was then that recognition glinted in her eyes, and tears began to fall. 

"Arya," Sansa said. It floated out on a breath, barely audible to even her own ears. In three strides she stood before her lost sister, and crushed her to her breast. "Gods, I thought you were dead," she cried. "I missed you. Where have you been?" 

Arya gripped at Sansa, her own face marked with fresh trails of tears. "It doesn't matter. I'm home now."

They stayed that way for some time before Sansa finally pulled back to look once again at Arya's red streaked face. She cupped it within her hands, guiding her thumbs over the apples of Arya's cheeks, wiping away the wetness that still lingered. "Sit with me. Tell me everything," Sansa implored. 

And Arya did. She talked of Yoren, Gendry, the Brotherhood without Banners, Dondarrion's death and revival, her travels with the Hound, training at the House of Black and White. Finally, she revealed her part in Walder Frey and his sons' deaths. 

It was then that Arya decided to hand Sansa the journal. She said nothing, merely held it out for her to take. 

Sansa looked at it, her brow furrowed, fingering the cover lightly. "What is this?" 

"Proof," Arya stated flatly. 

"Proof of what?" Sansa queried. 

Arya grabbed her hand, and held it tightly. "I saw you with Littlefinger this morning. I don't know the history between you two, but there are things you need to know — about his dealings with father, his involvement with Robb and mother's deaths. He's not what he seems, Sansa. Littlefinger needs to die before he turns on you as well."

Sansa pulled her hand back, and sank deeply into the seat. Her fingers skimmed the cover's edge before opening the first page, seeing the writing there. "This is Petyr's journal. How? How do you have this?" She said it with disbelief in her voice, eyes bouncing over the words on the page. 

"I stole it out of his chest only hours ago. Now we have proof of his crimes — in his own hand. No one will question a death sentence for him if you order it."

Sansa's eyes shot up at that. Arya could see her working something out. "It's not that easy," Sansa said. "He's Lord Protector of the Vale, and Robin adores him. If I sentence him to death, we could lose the support of the Lords Declarant. Our position is tenuous enough as is. Have you shown this to anyone else?" 

"No. I came straight to you. I haven't even had a chance to read it fully myself," Arya said. 

Sansa stood then, settling the journal in the crook of her arm, and bit her thumb as she paced. "I need some time to think this through. Can I keep this to study?" 

"Of course. I'll leave it to you to work through, and come back in a few days."

"No," Sansa replied quickly, and took Arya's hand. "Tomorrow night. Come back tomorrow night." 

Arya returned Sansa's half-hearted smile, and nodded. Then she silently slipped out of the room. 

* * *

Arya entered it again the following night, and found Sansa already seated and waiting for her. Again, they embraced each other, and Sansa whispered in her ear, "I was almost afraid that last night was a dream."

Arya pulled back, smiling. "Are you sure it wasn't a nightmare?" she joked. 

Sansa smiled again, a real smile, and hugged Arya again. "Definitely not."

Finally, they settled back into their seats from the night before, and Arya asked, " So what's the plan?"

Sansa looked into the fire, her eyes were distant. "I can't sentence him to death."

Arya leaned forward, ready to argue, but Sansa put up her hand and continued, "Not publicly. As I said last night, we can't lose the Vale. It has to be done in secret. He needs to disappear. No body. No evidence of murder. For all anyone would know, he ran off to save his own neck."

_Murder_ , Arya thought. She supposed that would be the correct term without a formal sentencing. She almost laughed. She wanted justice, but she'll settle for murder. 

"I can slip into his chambers tonight and do it," Arya said with all seriousness. 

"No," Sansa said almost too forcefully. "Not tonight. And not in his rooms." She looked thoughtful for a moment. "I'll lure him here tomorrow night."

"How do you know he'll come?" 

Sansa laughed. "Oh, he'll come." Then smiled knowingly at her little sister. Suddenly, she became very still. "I need you to wear one of your faces. I want you to bring wine right after we enter. You can't wait in my chambers, he'll know something is wrong. And he absolutely cannot see your face. Petyr's not a dumb man, he knows what you look like. We need him to let his guard down."

"Then I'll slit his throat."

Sansa didn't respond; only took a sip of wine from her goblet. 

* * *

The following night, Arya donned the face of a handmaiden. It was her favorite. It was the same face she used to slit Walder Frey's throat. It was the face of vengeance. 

She waited quietly in a dark expanse of hallway, listening eagerly for the sound of footsteps, of voices, any clue that Littlefinger was approaching Sansa's chambers. Arya was almost ready to give up, head to his chambers and drown him in his own blood, in his own bed, when she finally heard the soft swish of his robes. A gentle rap of knuckles could be heard, and Sansa's soft voice greeted him. 

"Lord Baelish." Arya saw a coy smile grace Sansa's lips. She was playing her role perfectly, thought Arya. 

"Lady Sansa," Littlefinger said with a leering gaze. "You wished to see me?" 

"Y- yes," Sansa stuttered, "Please, come in." As Sansa began to close the door, she uttered, "I've just sent for wine."

Arya wanted to go in right then, but she forced herself to wait. Counted the seconds, minutes until she could reasonably enter without seeming suspicious. Then not a moment longer than necessary, she rapped at the door. 

"Enter," called out Sansa. 

Arya carried the carafe of wine and two goblets upon a tray inside. "Your wine, my lady." 

Littlefinger eyed her curiously, but said nothing. 

It was Sansa that beckoned her to fill the goblets, and serve them. Arya played her part, taking each goblet in hand. She subserviently handed Sansa's over with a small, perfunctory curtsy, then turned to Littlefinger. 

With lightning reflexes, she tossed the wine in Littlefinger's face. In his blinded confusion, she pulled him from his chair, and bashed his head against the table to further disorient him. Before he could even fight back, she had ripped the ribbon from her hair, tied his wrists behind him, and pulled out Needle from her skirts. Arya was about to slit his throat, when- 

"Stop!" Sansa yelled, holding back Arya's forearm from striking. 

Arya held Littlefinger in the grasp of her right hand, left arm raised to strike, and confusion and anger played over her face as she took in Sansa. "Are you kidding me?! What's wrong now?" Irritation was clear in her voice. 

"I need to do it," Sansa whispered. 

"What?"

"Father said, _'The one that passes the sentence should swing the sword.'_ I'm the Lady of Winterfell. I need to do this. Please."

Littlefinger finally caught up to the conversation, and a rumbling laugh escaped his chest. He looked up at Sansa, over his shoulder, his grey-green eyes forcing her to meet his own. "I'm so proud of you, Sansa. You will be a remarkable queen someday."

Arya looked between them, tightened her grip on him, and passed Needle to Sansa. " You know what to do?" She questioned. 

"Yes." Sansa answered, as she studied Littlefinger's face. Then she broke her gaze from his, and turned to Arya. "Thank you."

"For what?" Arya responded. 

"I couldn't have done this without you." Sansa reached her free arm around Arya in a tight hug. "I love you."

Needle glided through the skin like butter. If it weren't for the blood, hot and wet, oozing from the wound, she might not have realized anything had happened at all. It was all so quick. So final. 

Arya looked up at Sansa, then her grip released. The body slid to the floor. The last breath came out in a shudder, and Sansa just stared for a moment before wiping the blood from Needle using Arya's dress. 

Sansa then returned her gaze to Littlefinger, and cut away his restraints. Behind her, she reached for the journal, and met his eyes once more. 

"I believe this belongs to you, My Lord." Sansa's eyes darkened, and she continued, "And perhaps a discussion of a _stronger_ alliance is in order." 

Littlefinger sat down — wine soaked and stained — crossed his legs, and observed as Arya's body bled out at his feet. He raised his eyes to meet her icy blue, and bit the inside of his lip. He drank in Sansa as if seeing her for the first time. A small tilt at one corner of his lips was the only sign of his pleasure. "Perhaps," he rasped. "But please, call me Petyr."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb."_
> 
> An old saying, but I think it encapsulates the Petyr/Sansa dynamic perfectly. 
> 
>  
> 
> So here's the thing. Remember how Arya and Ned had that whole deep conversation about the pack sticking together? How about the one where he makes her promise not to hurt Sansa? Yeah, well Sansa never got that. In fact, both Cat and Ned rather stupidly kept Sansa in the dark on a lot of stuff. Treated her like a pretty doll as it were. And after witnessing Lysa's death, and helping to cover it up, I don't see her having a problem with kinslaying. In my eyes, she'll never be a true Stark because her connection to the Starks died when Lady died. 
> 
> Motivation for killing Arya? Sansa heard her tale. She understands that Arya is a wild thing, and isn't likely to cooperate with her plans. (And make no mistake, she has them). 
> 
> Anyway, wrote this in a couple hours. No beta. If you see anything glaringly horrible grammar wise, please tell me. 
> 
> Like it says in the tags, I embrace your hate. :)


	2. A Dream of Spring

Sansa walked back to her room in silence; stoicism draping her features. She could not afford to let any of the lords see the conflicted emotions she felt on her face. In the sight of gods and men, she condemned Petyr to die. For the North; for her family. 

When, finally, she was ensconced inside the lord’s chambers of Winterfell, door safely locked behind her, she allowed herself to weep — to mourn. 

No one understood the mercurial relationship she and Petyr shared. Did she love him? Hate him? Begrudgingly respect him? Sansa wasn't sure herself at that moment. She only knew that she was grateful. They would never know what the mockingbird had done to save her — them. She alone would carry the burden of that knowledge for her family. 

Sansa held her stomach as she sank against the door.

“We are safe.”

* * *

Six months passed when the pains came — swift and sharp. Sansa was certain she would be ripped in two. And she would, in a way. Separated from that last piece of him that was cradled safely within her. 

Long agonizing hours passed. Then, a day. Amidst screams and blood, he was born — the heir to Winterfell. 

The nursemaid held him out to her, and as she reached for him, another tortuous stab radiated through her. Her own scream drowning out the cries of her son. 

The calls to push resounded through her hazy mind, and she complied as best she could. 

A girl. 

The mockingbird had given her one of each. And wasn't that always his way, she laughed. Always a contingency plan.

She called them Petyr and Alayne. 

* * *

Six years later, Sansa watched as her mockingbirds played in the glass gardens. Winter had only just begun to lift; the sun peeking hesitantly through the clouds. 

She watched as they ran circles around the garden attendant. 

“Petyr! Alayne! Stop harassing Jarnie,” she chided. 

They came before their mother with contrite faces. 

“Sorry, Mother," they chorused, looking every inch their father. 

“Don't apologize to me.” And she directed them towards the gardener, who sat looking wholly amused. 

They echoed their apologies to the maid. “‘Tis nothing, my dears,” Jarnie said before scooting them back to the Lady of Winterfell. 

Sansa bent down and gave each a hug in turn, before taking their hands, leading them out into the courtyard. 

“Your father would be very proud of you,” she said, smilingly sadly. “You looked truly sorry back there.”

“We were, Mother,” spoke Alayne. 

She paused in their trek, gauging the truth in her daughter's statement, studying those eyes that were a mirror of her father's. She was definitely his daughter. 

Sansa shook her head and chuckled, “Of course you were, my dear.” She tucked down an errant red curl behind the child's ear. 

Young Petyr tugged at her arm. “Mother, can you tell us about Father? You always say you will, but you never do,” asked the dark haired little boy somewhat petulantly. 

Sansa took a trembling breath, and continued their progress outside. She knew as they grew older, it would be harder to avoid the issue. With their sixth nameday come and gone, perhaps it was time to tell them a little. 

When they entered the courtyard, Sansa stopped at the steps to the catwalk. She sat and drew them both to her, wanting them to see the truth in her eyes as she spoke. 

“Your father was a very cunning man." She smiled reassuringly. "The most cunning I ever knew. He saved me from King’s Landing, from the court of the Bastard King, and brought me home.”

“You were in King’s Landing?” asked her son. 

“I was. When the War of Five Kings broke out, I was a hostage there," she explained. 

“And Father swept in to save you? Like a knight in a story?” asked Alayne, bouncing on her heels, her green eyes flashing excitedly. 

Sansa beamed at her sweet daughter, and gave her hand a squeeze. “Not quite. He was a master of court politics, your father. He made the king and small council believe he was on their side, while quietly planning to smuggle me away.”

Little Petyr's brow furrowed. “So he wasn't a hero?”

She gripped his chin, making sure he listened as she said, “He was. Not the gallant kind that the bards sing of, but he was a hero to me. Not all heroes wield swords. Do you understand?”

The boy nodded, then asked hesitantly, “How did he die?” Blue eyes, eyes so much like her own, stared into her soul. 

Sansa fought back the tears that stung. “Saving us, my loves. He died saving us.” She mussed their hair as she planted kisses to each of their cheeks. “That's enough about your father for now. Go help Maynard feed the hounds.” 

The squish of mud filled her ears as they scurried away to do as they were told. Sansa wiped away the moisture that dammed the corners of her eyes, and rose to ascend the stairs. 

“How long are you going to lie to them?” came a voice with a deep Northern brogue. 

Sansa inwardly cringed. Her cousin, Jon — King Jon — sat on the balcony overlooking the courtyard. He likely saw the whole exchange. 

She cooled her face to the icy demeanor of a Northern lady before she reached the top of the stairs. Looking down, she watched as her children splattered and traipsed through the muddy yard. 

Holding her hands over her waist, she stood next to the new king without facing him. “They are children. Let them keep their innocence for a bit longer.”

His voice concealed barely contained rage. “Littlefinger was no hero. He nearly tore our family apart. He killed Arya.” 

_No_ , she wanted to say. _I did that. He only took the blame, so that I may live. I was foolhardy, and he saved me. Saved them._

Instead, she said nothing, allowing Jon to believe her silence was agreement. 

As the chill wind settled around them, Jon spoke again. “Daenerys is dead.”

“I heard. I'm sorry for your loss.” _Even as you are not sorry for mine._

Jon braced himself against the railing. “I need an heir, Sansa.”

“And what would you have of me?” No sooner had the question left her lips than a blustery gale whipped beneath her dress, sending a wave of cold to her bones. 

He looked at the pale visage before him. “I want you to return to King’s Landing with me. Consent to be my wife.”

Sansa's breath faltered. She was aghast that he would ask such a thing, but didn't let it show. “Why me? There are younger maidens in the kingdom. Many of them eager to perform such a task.”

“Because you know about court life. You know how to navigate it. And I know you aren't barren.” He gestured towards her two little birds as they played tug with the dogs. “And after all we've been through, I know I can trust you.”

She wanted to laugh. Her chest fit to burst with the absurdity of his words. _Oh Jon! If only you knew what I was capable of. You fool!_

She inhaled deeply as she considered his proposal. “The twins birth was hard on me, Jon. If I am unable to give you an heir?”

“Then, the succession will stay as it always has. I'll not cast you aside. Your son, as my closest living male relative, is next in line," he assured her. 

Sansa met Jon’s dark eyes, so filled with that touch of sadness that never quite seemed to leave. “I will consent on two conditions.”

“Name them.”

“My children come with me. I will not be parted from them.”

“Done. And the other?”

“When they come of age, I want your promise that the North will have its freedom from the Seven Kingdoms. I want it to be its own country, with its own ruler, just as Robb wanted.”

He looked to argue. “Sansa-”

She held up her hand. “No. You know as well as I how the Northmen long for their independence. Give them that, and you will have your bride. Do you accept my terms?”

Jon nodded. “You have my word.” 

“Good. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to make arrangements.”

Sansa gathered her skirts, and left Jon standing alone on the walkway. Her heart threatening to leap from her chest in dread — in anticipation. 

Sansa informed the steward to prepare for their imminent departure before heading to her own chamber. 

Once inside, Sansa locked the door, and moved to her dressing table. Pulling out the small chest that contained her jewelry, she pressed the hidden button which released its secret drawer. It popped out audibly. 

Inside was all that she had left of Petyr. Those simple adornments of silver and gold that had graced his hands. 

And his mockingbird pin. 

Her fingers smoothed longingly over the cool metal, before grasping it tenderly in her palm. Sansa knew she was doing the right thing, ensuring the future for their children, just as he had done in death. She felt her breath catch, lungs seizing it, as her heart ached from missing him. She clutched the pin to her chest, and allowed the tears, that she'd tried desperately to hold back, trail red rivers down her face. 

Vehemence was threaded in her shaky voice. “I promise you, my love, your son will sit the Iron Throne. And your daughter will be a queen.”

Out of the ashes, new seedlings will rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't expecting to write a chapter two for this, but this scenario popped in my head this morning, so here we are. Enjoy!


End file.
